The problem I have with almost all of the books by widows is that they are much further along in life and either stay at home or retired wives.
Obviously they are writers, since they have written the book, but they don’t tend to be executive directors with toddlers, who have to get out of bed every day.
They talk about laying in bed for days having no purpose. They don’t talk about needing to lay in bed for a single day, but being unable.
I love my toddler and I love my job. It’s not that I would trade places with these women, it’s just that they don’t relate.
No one relates, because each situation is so different. Blah blah blah. Why do people think pointing out this uniqueness will be a comfort?
The pain is more acute than the day he died, but the people are gone. The tears flow more freely, but the work must go on.
Two years ago we were on our baby moon. Last year we were getting ready for San Francisco.
This year is muddy and gray.